Without Ser Willem or the servants, the Red Door mansion felt hollow, its echo carrying through the stone halls.
Now only three souls remained: Viserys, Rhaenys, and Daenerys.
Grand houses were meant to breathe — as the Braavosi said, a home without voices dies. Nobles and castles needed people to keep them alive. When labor vanished, the walls fell silent, the gardens withered, and neglect crept in like ivy.
Harrenhal was proof enough. Though it had five massive towers, House Whent could only fill two of them. The rest had long since become ghost halls.
For Viserys, replacing the servants was now a problem. They still needed a cook, a laundress, a steward, a doorman — all the simple souls that kept a house running.
A noble household normally required dozens more — a castellan, maids, butchers, grooms, guards, gardeners, kennel-masters. Such a place devoured gold as fast as it consumed food.
In the long run, Viserys knew he and his sisters might have to flee again. Still, for now, the Red Door needed tending. He couldn't have Daenerys, barely more than a child, scrubbing linens or cooking her own meals.
Then came an unexpected offer.
The district justice, Sisa, sent word that he could introduce them to some reliable servants. Generosity was rare in Braavos — rarer still from a man like him.
Viserys didn't show surprise. He had sensed already that Sisa's silent "bodyguard" during the investigation wasn't just a guard at all, but a high-ranking agent of the Sea Lord.
Even Sisa himself carried lineage — a minor noble name, but noble nonetheless.
For the Sea Lord, the Targaryen exiles were not equals to bargain with, merely game pieces that could be watched, used, or discarded. But the recent deaths had stirred his attention again, and attention — even cold and detached — was currency.
"Try the sea snails," Viserys said, arranging a silver plate in the drawing room.
The aroma was intoxicating — butter, garlic, brine, and warmth. The dish was expensive enough to make his stomach tighten with guilt, but strength required sacrifice.
Rhaenys and Daenerys each took small bites, but Viserys ate most of it himself. The Glutton talent worked like a magic forge — so long as the food was exceptional, it transformed taste into strength.
He could already feel it. His physical power stat had crept from 1.1 to 1.2. The price, however, was biting fast. This way of "training" would empty their purse long before it filled his muscles.
"Should we really take Sisa's offer?" Rhaenys asked hesitantly. "I don't trust him. Or whoever he sends."
"You're worried they'll be spies," Viserys said gently, glancing at her.
Rhaenys's olive skin glowed in the dim light, her dark eyes sharp — more Dornish than Valyrian, with the quiet strength that had skipped his own veins.
"I am," she admitted. "Even if they don't steal from us, they'll be watching for someone — the Sea Lord, maybe. Or worse."
Viserys wiped his mouth with a napkin. "We don't have a choice."
They already lived in the lion's den. Being observed barely mattered when you were the mouse. And besides, the Braavosi saw them as curiosities, not threats — pale souvenirs of a fallen empire.
To negotiate with the Sea Lord himself, he would need far greater leverage.
"How much coin do we have left?" he asked.
Rhaenys managed Ser Willem's hoard; Viserys held their mother's treasures — Queen Rhaella's crown, a few gemstones, heirlooms of a world burned away.
Those jewels had once been Daenerys's salvation in another history — traded piece by piece until they starved. Viserys had no intention of following that same fate again.
"After rehiring servants, we can last a few years," Rhaenys said. "Assuming we don't waste on luxuries."
She didn't say it aloud, but her eyes flicked toward the half-empty snail dish.
Renting the manor, paying wages, buying medicines — the money drained fast. And with Viserys's newfound appetite, the drain was quickly becoming a flood.
Broke before birth, broke after rebirth, he thought sourly. Some destinies really do stick.
"We need money," he said aloud. "Soon."
In the Free Cities, gold was power, gold was safety, gold was breath itself.
Daenerys and Rhaenys could not be laborers. Viserys had only two real assets — his face and his blood. In the Free Cities, the ancient blood of Old Valyria was still glamorous, a symbol of lost dragons and fire. But though others might sell beauty, he would not. Not yet.
As his mind spun through grim possibilities, something pulsed behind his eyes.
The panel.
It flickered again. And this time, the message glowed brighter than ever.
[Event Triggered: The Poisoned Mushroom Incident. Fate Axis Shifted. Random Talent Reward Granted.]
A new card materialized in the air — spinning once, twice, then slowing.
On it stood a tall, round man in a white apron, one hand gripping a skillet, the other a ladle, face beaming in proud mastery. His very posture radiated confidence — the kind born of creation.
[Talent: God of Cuisine.]
From the frozen North to the golden South, from Westeros to distant Essos, I have seen every wonder of this world. I have cooked them all, chasing perfection in flavor, texture, and soul.
Viserys blinked at the description. It wasn't fantasy or battle power like The Glutton — no, this was something domestic, almost mundane. Yet it intrigued him.
A lifestyle talent.
He closed his eyes, and visions flickered — knives glinting, flames dancing, meat sizzling. The knowledge flooded him, the memory of a thousand kitchens: shark and eel, mushroom and venison, even mammoth and aurochs meat.
In that moment, he wasn't a starving prince anymore, but a chef touched by the divine.
When he opened his eyes, his arms tingled with heat. Muscles thrummed faintly. His Strength stat had climbed again.
"Buy one, get one free," he murmured with a grin.
The logic was simple enough — cooking was labor, and great chefs swung cleavers as hard as knights swung swords.
He turned toward his sisters, eyes alight. "Let me cook you something new," he said. "We'll see how far this godhood really goes."